Tuesday, July 14, 2015

I hope you still write her letters,
I hope tears still fall from her eyes,
Reading those letters she never found.
And when you look at the letters you never sent,
I hope it's her eyes that see the love wrapped,
For they no longer need to know the words.
But even when words fail to work magic,
I hope you still believe in your letters...
I hope you still write her letters
But I hope you send the letters you wrote..

Sunday, July 5, 2015

So many years have gone by
And age has made both of us
A lot older than we used to be,
A little wiser than we used to be.
And when the yesteryears
Enter stealthily through the doors
Of a veiled moon and a dark cirrus,
We look back at what we used to be
And what we have become today.

So many years have gone by
And I don't see a single sign of you
And you see me not in who I am today.
I have changed as I should have -
I have built a small hut in a new village now.
You still are in the city we used to live in.
And maybe we'd have been so much happier now,

But I have changed as I should have
And you, you still have those grey hairs
Like the rays of moonlight falling on my face now.
And when I have changed as I should have,
You still live in the city we used to live in,
Looking the way you used to look,
And maybe, just maybe, you haven't changed a bit,
The way you should have changed.

Thursday, July 2, 2015

I have this habit of not shutting the doors when I should, of
leaving some space as tiny as a cleavage. Some doors I have shut a long time back. I
didn’t simply shut them; I slammed some, the way only a teenager does when she
is angry because her father snatched away her iPod. Some doors I struggled to
close, one inch a day. A few of these doors are still left ajar, not awaiting
someone’s arrival, but knowing there is nothing to hide behind closed doors.

Closed doors – I think it’s easy to close the doors, to hide
underneath the blanket of comfort, to pretend there is no world outside. Of late,
I have realized easy is no fun at all.

I have been trying to unlock the doors I shut eons ago. The
rusted latches refuse to comply. Some doors I closed a few years ago, are
giving up trying to stay shut.

I look at the rooms these doors protect – mostly empty,
devoid of the life they once used to hold. Was it only after the treasure was
stolen that the doors were locked? Or the fear of theft made me empty the
rooms? Where is the treasure now? I can barely remember.

I sit on the pile of the remaining pearls. Three empty
spaces stare at me – those spaces used to hold doors once, one carved of wood,
one made of iron and the third was a mere curtain, pretending to be a door.

The curtain was the first to be torn. The wooden one was
broken one fine morning. And the one made of iron had disappeared into thin air
on one mystical night, the way rust eats up a tiny piece of nail when left
unattended for ages.

I sit on the pile of the treasure left behind – a few pearls
I can count on my fingers. Yesterday, I believe, the count was more. I can
barely remember.

Goodreads

I cannot, or rather will not judge a book that touches the strings of my heart and leaves me half-crying and half-contemplating about my own meaningless existence in this vast universe.

The kind of story that makes you want to question the laws of nature, that's heart-ending and beautiful and that makes you irrevocably fall in love with the story and the characters. And you all you want to do is pray for the characters who are left behind to leave a life of mourning and misery and that's when you realize it's just a work of fiction. But not really, because fictions are realities we don't think of, that are happening to people we know nothing about.